


For a Klingon, This Is a Joyful Time

by Duck_Life



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine, Star Trek: The Next Generation, Star Trek: The Next Generation (Movies)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Dreams and Nightmares, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Loss, Post-Movie: Star Trek Nemesis (2002), Trauma, Widowed, i just have a lot of feelings about Worf in the aftermath of Nemesis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:07:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22165357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Duck_Life/pseuds/Duck_Life
Summary: After Data's death, everything seems to catch up with Worf.
Relationships: Worf & Data, Worf & Jeremy Aster
Comments: 4
Kudos: 39





	For a Klingon, This Is a Joyful Time

**Author's Note:**

> References TNG episodes: "The Most Toys," "Lower Decks," "Parallels," "Reunion," "Redemption," "Skin of Evil," "The Bonding," "Gambit," "Clues," "Time's Arrow"  
> Also DS9 episodes "Tears of the Prophets" and "Image in the Sand"  
> Title from TNG episode "The Next Phase"

_ The shuttle pulls away from the  _ Jovis _ , returning to the  _ Enterprise _. This time, Worf feels the sudden surge of dread before the explosion actually happens. The shuttlecraft explodes, scattering steel plating and coils and components into the void of space, along with the scattered remains of Commander Data, now turned into so much flotsam and jetsam.  _

_ “Data,” Worf murmurs, feeling suddenly trapped at the tactical station. There’s nothing he can do. The damage is done. The shuttle is destroyed. Data is dead.  _

Worf gasps awake, sitting up in bed. His breathing takes a few moments to level out. The relief hits him first— just a bad dream. Just a nightmare. Data didn’t die in that shuttlecraft explosion, he had been placed in captivity by that Zibalian trader. And they’d gotten him back. And he’d been okay. 

That time.

Spot makes an inquisitive noise and jumps up on the bed, pressing the top of her head against Worf’s hand. No, Data didn’t die in that shuttlecraft explosion. He died in the explosion of the  _ Scimitar _ . Worf pets the cat, and then he gets up for a glass of water. There’s no way he’ll get back to sleep tonight. 

Recently, he’s been having bad dreams every night. He dreams of a black puddle of ink killing Tasha Yar, and Data, and Jadzia, and K’Ehleyr. He dreams of Cardassian agents murdering Sito Jaxa while she screams. He dreams of watching Data being taken apart piece by piece, and then when they put him back together again he turns around and has Ezri’s face. 

* * *

Jeremy Aster shows up at his door. He’s attending Starfleet Academy now, just a few kilometers away from the temporary housing where the crew of the  _ Enterprise _ has taken up residence. “I made this for Spot,” Jeremy explains, holding up an intricate cat tree made of plastic and metal rods and carpeted in soft fibers. There’s a scratching post down at the bottom and a covered enclosure on the top. 

“She will love it,” Worf assures the young man. “Please, come in. I’ll… make tea.” 

* * *

Worf dreams that he’s on the holodeck with Tasha, sparring, when suddenly she turns into Sela and stabs him in the stomach. He dreams about sitting in Ten-Forward with Data, and then he looks away and looks back and B-4 has taken his place. He dreams about holding Jadzia in his arms, watching as she transforms into Ezri. He wakes up reaching for the emptiness on the other side of the bed. 

* * *

Promotion due to the death of a crewmate is commonplace on Klingon ships. He has told Deanna this. He has told himself this. Sometimes, though, he wonders where he would be in his Starfleet career if Tasha Yar were still alive. 

He reads a communique from his son. He feeds Spot. He wonders if everybody his age feels so old so fast. 

He cannot stay in San Francisco forever, living in this too-big apartment with Spot and occasional visits from Jeremy Aster. Picard wants him serving as first officer on the  _ Enterprise-E _ . Promotion due to the death of a crewmate is commonplace on Klingon ships. Data is dead, so Worf gets three solid pips on his collar. 

* * *

“Your parents would be very proud of you,” Worf tells Jeremy one afternoon. They are drinking tea while Spot dozes happily in the stand that Jeremy built. “You’ve grown into a very fine—”

“Warrior?” Jeremy guesses, giving him a sly look. 

“A very fine young man,” Worf finishes. “A good person. With a good heart.” He forces down a sip of tea, ducking his eyes. 

Jeremy leans forward in his chair. “Worf, is everything alright?” 

Worf stares down at his own knuckles, at the fingers curled around the handle of his cup. “In a few days, I will return to duty on the  _ Enterprise _ ,” he says. “It is… difficult to consider returning to work when my friend cannot.” 

“You mean Data.” Worf nods. “You know, Data taught me how to play chess,” Jeremy says. “We used to play a lot, you know, back then. And these days I play with my aunt, and some guys down at the park. I never would be able to do that if it hadn’t been for Data.”

“He was an excellent chess player,” Worf agrees. “And a fine teacher.” 

“My aunt says,” Jeremy goes on, “when you lose someone, a part of them lives on in the things they taught you. Like my mom— well, she taught me a lot of stuff. She taught me how to fold my socks and how to tie my shoes. And then when I was older, she taught me how to crochet. I still do it, sometimes— baby hats and holiday gifts, stuff like that.” 

“You carry on your mother’s memory by honoring her wisdom,” Worf says. 

“Exactly.” Jeremy takes a sip of his tea. “So… did Mr. Data teach you anything?” 

Data taught him how to take an insult like taking a punch, rolling with it, making sure it does as little damage as possible to your own sense of self. Data taught him how to be bad at something until you were good— singing, dancing, telling jokes. Data taught him how to connect with the culture around him without losing his sense of uniqueness. Data taught him— 

“Data taught me how to be a good first officer,” Worf recalls, remembering the dressing-down Data had given him during his time in command of the  _ Enterprise _ , when Worf had been unable to curb his own complaints and opinions about Data’s decisions. “I hope that lesson serves me well in the weeks and months to come.” 

* * *

In the dream, Deanna grabs his arm and  _ twists _ , sending him sprawling against the floor of the bridge. She crouches over him, smiling cruelly, and says, “Our baby would have been so beautiful.” She is suddenly holding a bat’leth, no, a phaser, no, a knife, and she whispers, “Alexander…” in K’Ehleyr’s faint death rattle. 

Worf presses his combadge and calls out for Riker, for Data, for Yar. Nobody responds. He wakes up, disoriented to find himself on Earth and not on the  _ Enterprise _ . Or DS9. Or Qo'noS. 

* * *

Even though it’s the middle of the night, he comms Geordi. “It was an honorable death,” he says, gasping. “For a worthy cause. Why can I not stop feeling this way?”

Geordi says, “I’m coming over.” 

* * *

He brings a bottle of Romulan ale and they spend all night reminiscing about Data’s wordy poetry and his singing and his bravery. Geordi wipes his eyes on the cuff of his sleeve and talks about how conflicted he was, how hard it was to help Data get to the  _ Scimitar _ , knowing he wouldn’t be coming back. 

“I can still remember how pleased he seemed when they found his head in that cavern,” Worf recounts. “When he learned that he could die, that he  _ would _ die. He was happy… as happy as he could feel, back then, you know. And to die destroying such a horrific weapon, to die saving a man like the captain… it was a valiant death. A hero’s death.” He rakes a hand through his loose hair. “So why then… ?”

“You know, the meaningful, honorable deaths hurt as much as the other ones,” Geordi points out. “Grief doesn’t care. It hits you and it hits you hard.” He takes a swig of the Romulan ale and passes the bottle to Worf. 

Worf drinks. “Romulan ale should be illegal,” he says.

“It is,” Geordi says. 

* * *

On the day the  _ Enterprise _ is ready to depart Earth once again, Worf beams up with a trunk of his belongings clutched in one hand. His other arm is curled around Spot. As his molecules rearrange themselves, he considers the ways in which using a transporter is a kind of death. The original “you” is lost in the process, leaving behind a duplicate patterned in your image. Perhaps it is a different Worf— and a different Spot— who step off the transporter platform. 

He has the cat tree that Jeremy Aster made beamed to his quarters. He hangs up the painting that Data made for him so many birthdays ago. He thinks about his dead friends and his dead wife. He watches Earth fade from view as they pull farther and farther away. 

In the evening, he meets Geordi and the captain for a game of poker. 


End file.
